By David Carlson | For The Times-Post

There is a lot about aging that I’m fine with.

Getting to know and love my grandchildren is beyond anything I expected, and there’s something to be said about not having to set an alarm for Monday mornings.

But I confess that I find it hard to say goodbye when friends pass away.

Someone might assume that grieving becomes easier with the passing of each friend, but I find the opposite to be true.

This past week, a close friend and colleague from the college died unexpectedly.

In retirement and even before, we would have lunch several times a year at the Willard to discuss politics, the role of the media to dig up and present the truth (he was a journalist), how the college was faring, and what was going on with our children and grandchildren.

We weren’t able to lunch together during the pandemic, but we restarted that tradition this past May and were hoping for many more lunches in the future.

I will always associate the word “virtue” with my friend Bill.

Virtue may sound a bit like an antiquated word, but Bill was a throwback in many ways.

As an editor at a major Midwest newspaper before heading the journalism program at Franklin College, Bill demanded truth-seeking and truth-telling from all whom he trained and oversaw.

For Bill, truth started with the word.

Every word had to be spelled correctly and used correctly in sentences and paragraphs.

Every reference to place and time had to be correct.

Every quotation had to be exact.

Every claim had to be substantiated.

For Bill, truth wasn’t an opinion, something a person could define for himself or herself.

Truth was a reality, and it was the sacred duty of journalists in a democracy to uncover and share the truth, maybe especially when the truth wasn’t comfortable or comforting.

The other virtue I will always associate with Bill is wonder.

I can’t think of any topic that Bill didn’t find fascinating.

He once visited one of the lesser-known islands off the western edge of Scotland and wrote a series of poems about what he encountered there.

Others on the trip might have found the rain so prevalent in Scotland to diminish their experience.

Not so for Bill.

He chose to write poems about the different types of rain that he observed.

That was so typical of Bill — to find the wonder in the everyday.

I suppose Bill was what some would call a “wise old bird.”

But I will remember Bill in another way — he was still a child in the best of senses.

Bill reminded me of Jesus’ teaching that to enter the kingdom of God, one has to become like a child, someone so full of wonder and so much in love with truth that guile and arrogance are impossible.

A common phrase at a death is to wish for the person to rest in peace.

That is not what I wish for Bill.

Bill and I both believed that this life will be followed by another, but I don’t expect Bill to be resting.

I believe Bill is exploring his new reality in total wonder.

David Carlson is a professor emeritus of philosophy and religion. Send comments to [email protected].